


come on, snake

by wartimelovers



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (because apparently i'm a slut for aziraphale taking care of crowley), (i guess), (kind of), 1950s, 1950s Slang, Aziraphale takes care of Crowley, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Walking Anxiety Attack Anthony J Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 13:09:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21054932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wartimelovers/pseuds/wartimelovers
Summary: There had been, admittedly, many times in Crowley’s life where he wished he phrased things differently. Many things he had said to many different people over the centuries that got grossly misinterpreted. And countless times when he wished he worked well under pressure. But right there, his mind seemed completely blank as how to convey the simple distraction action to Aziraphale. He opened his mouth and closed it, pinched the bridge of his nose, and finally, hurried by the angel looking over his shoulder with a worried look on his face, blurted out, “Come on, snake, let’s rattle.”or, Crowley and Aziraphale have communication issues like you wouldn't believe.





	come on, snake

**Author's Note:**

> lmao! another fic (i guess) that was supposed to be a ficlet, but what can ya do?
> 
> generally, if you're confused, the phrase "come on, snake, let's rattle" could mean both dancing and fighting in the 1950s slang and i thought it would be funny if aziraphale and crowley hanged out in different circles and had different ideas about that phrase and well. 
> 
> i feel like this piece belongs more to the book verse as they are in a sort of comfortable relationship where they bicker like an old couple but take care of each other and love each other, just in private, but also doesnt contain any specifics that would make it explicitly a book fic. so. 
> 
> please do let me know if you liked it! x

Crowley walked into the smoke-filled room and quickly glanced around. Though he usually enjoyed hanging around the bars owned by the mafia – as the parties were likely to either turn into an orgy or a brawl and he enjoyed _both _– today he was just looking for one particular lad that needed some convincing. As soon as that was done, he was out of there. It was just one of these days – work was piling up, so he picked out the easiest thing to do and then it was back to the comfy confines of his new flat. To sulk, perhaps. But one couldn’t be sure.  
  
The lad was nowhere in sight so Crowley sauntered over to the bar, pushing through the bodies swirling on the dancefloor. As mentioned before, he _might’ve been _experiencing a mood, some certain emotions perhaps, and the general giddiness coming off the dancing people like storm waves hitting the seashore was just unnerving. Crowley longed to influence one of the girls to smile at one of the wrong boys, too restless and uneasy, maybe causing him to come ask her to dance, only to get struck down by a jealous boyfriend. He shook his head. Maybe later. Nothing serious could go down before he had the chance to talk to the lad.

The atmosphere by the crowded bar was definitely more daunting, which made him feel a little bit more at ease, at least. He ordered some whiskey and turned around, elbows resting on the countertop, scanned the crowd once again. No sight of the boy. He let out a pained sigh and patted down his pockets in search of the pack of cigarettes. A brilliant invention, he thought, lighting one up. Not only do they make you feel bad, they upset everyone in the three-meter radius. Just _wonderful_.

Smoking one cigarette after the other, he allowed himself to daydream, occasionally checking in to see whether or not the guy finally turned up. It was this lack of care he exhibited these days that got him cornered by a wanna be mafia boss minutes later. He was harmless and boyishly fascinated by Crowley and his apparent reputation, which in turn was quite annoying.

“I am telling you, Mr. Crowley, with your support I could easily…” The boy was rambling and Crowley gave him a polite nod or acknowledgement from time to time, careful only not to agree to anything serious. He had enough to do as it was. The boy, lost in his apparent grand vision, didn’t need much encouraging. His enthusiasm was almost pitiful.

He scanned the crowd for anyone he might know to quickly excuse himself from the situation. In the corner of his eye a bright spot glimmered in the dark sea of leather jackets and polka dot dresses. There, not too far away, stood a man with a head full of blonde – almost white – curls. In the dim light of the room, the hair almost gave him a halo-like appearance. Crowley squinted and listened intently. It couldn’t have been… Not here, by any rate.

It was worth a shot. “Right,” Crowley said. “I will think it over, but for now I have some business to discuss with my acquaintance over there.” He nodded in the general direction of the blonde man. The boy made a serious face and began to say something, but before he could finish – or start another rant altogether – Crowley slid past him and quickly made his way over to the man in question.

From few feet away, he could hear him excitedly talking about pastries, which left no doubt. For whatever reason, Aziraphale was spending his Saturday afternoon at a mafia dance rather than holed up in his brand-new reading nook with a cup of tea. Crowley didn’t care that much, and at any rate he was glad Aziraphale was there. This way, he didn’t have to miracle a random guy to talk to him to avoid looking suspicious.

He tapped him on the shoulder, which caused Aziraphale to stop mid-sentence and give him a weird look as if it was him who was surprised to see Crowley. Then he blushed. Quite visibly, at that. The young chap who he had been talking to just a moment ago gave Crowley a knowing look – but only Satan knows what he thought he knew – and excused himself to give the pair some privacy.

Crowley couldn’t help but smile. “Hello angel. Fancied a bit of a change, I presume?”

Aziraphale’s blush deepened. His cherubic face and white curls, which he let grow a bit longer and unruly, was in stark contrast to what he was wearing – dark brown turtleneck with a dark leather jacket thrown on and a pair of brown slacks. Crowley wanted to tell him he liked his new look, but worried it might come out ironic, so he decided against it.

“If you must know, this is for work,” Aziraphale huffed. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have been entrusted with a rather important task of getting a few nice young men on the right path again.”

“I see,” Crowley replied and let his gaze linger on Aziraphale’s lips a bit too long.

“And you? You’re probably here to… get them off the right path and into the claws of the devil, I’d assume.”

“Precisely. Looking for one lad in particular but he’s making me wait,” Crowley pouted and took a long drag from his cigarette.

Aziraphale made a show of waving the smoke away from his face and gave Crowley a disappointed look. “Put it out at once,” he said. “The smell is simply awful.”

“You know you can make it smell however you like,” Crowley replied. None of the cigarettes he ever smoked had the taste or smell of an actual cigarette, at least not to him. Tasting like blueberries or smelling like vanilla, they were definitely more addictive this way. Crowley marked up that idea for later.

“Yes, but I’d rather not attract any attention right now,” Aziraphale said. “Especially that you’re here now, with me.”

Crowley felt his mouth turn down in a grimace. Aziraphale had a point but he hated it nonetheless. The weight of that, combined with his already grim mood, seemed to sit on his shoulders and pull him down.

Instead of answering, he raised his eyebrows and promptly dropped the still lit cigarette to the ground.

Aziraphale made a little ‘tsk’ noise. “There is no need for that, now, my dear,” he said and glanced at the cigarette, which quickly vanished. “Is something bothering you?”

“It’s just work,” Crowley replied reluctantly. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Oh, right.” Aziraphale outstretched his arm and gave Crowley a reassuring rub on the shoulder. “Well, then, as soon as you’re done here, how about we head to the bookshop and maybe we could…”

Crowley tried to focus on what Aziraphale was describing (and it really did sound lovely) but his eyes kept darting to the front door and the dancing crowd. Instead of the lad he was waiting for, he saw some of the lower ranks gangsters from a rival group walk in and head for the guy he was talking to earlier. Now, they definitely could not see him here. He shifted his focus back to Aziraphale, who stopped his rambles about wine now that he saw the worried expression on Crowley’s face.

“What is it, dear?”

“Let’s say there are some people here now that cannot know I am here now,” he hissed quickly. His brain was working on the highest of speed, trying to figure out an escape route, and soon enough he saw it, the back door out right behind the stage and the dancefloor. He tugged on Aziraphale’s sleeve and pulled him closer to the dancing mass of people.

“What are you doing? Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, wiggling his arm free.

Crowley shushed him. “See that door? That’s where we’re heading. Just need a little distraction.”

“What kind of distraction?”

There had been, admittedly, many times in Crowley’s life where he wished he phrased things differently. Many things he had said to many different people over the centuries that got grossly misinterpreted. And countless times when he wished he worked well under pressure. But right there, his mind seemed completely blank as how to convey the simple distraction action to Aziraphale. He opened his mouth and closed it, pinched the bridge of his nose, and finally, hurried by the angel looking over his shoulder with a worried look on his face, blurted out, “Come on, snake, let’s rattle.”

He meant dancing. In the circles that he sometimes hanged out in the recent past, that particular phase meant dancing. He remembered hearing it and thinking it was quite funny, but had a nice ring to it. For the love of someone, anyone, he could not understand why he chose this moment to use it for the first time. But what was said could not be unsaid.

Aziraphale just stared at him. Then he furrowed his brows and shook his head. “No! Absolutely not, Crowley! I am not going to–”

“Oh, come on!” Crowley was getting impatient. He could feel the gangsters getting closer. “I know you’ve done it in the past and it’s not a big deal, honestly–”

It wasn’t in his power to finish that sentence as Aziraphale’s fist met harshly with his face. He stumbled backwards, shocked, and instinctively grabbed at it. Aziraphale punched hard, apparently, and that was not something he’d assume about the angel. Or that he punched people at all.

He looked up, hurt more emotionally than physically, to where Aziraphale was still standing with his balled-up fist raised up, ready, and looking at him expectantly. Some people nearby stopped dancing and were forming a small crowd. Shit, shit, _shit_.

DO SOMETHING.

Crowley winced and raised his other hand to his head as Aziraphale apparently broadcasted his angelic voice straight into his brain.

DO SOMETHING, echoed in his head again, more urgently. PEOPLE ARE LOOKING.

Crowley took a second to collect himself and straightened up. STOP THIS AT ONCE, he shot back, making Aziraphale wince in return.

THEN DO SOMETHING! YOU STARTED THIS, SO NOW–

He wasn’t allowed to finish as Crowley charged forward, for the lack of a better solution, and struck him in the middle. Aziraphale instinctively pushed him back and swung his arm again, but Crowley, knowing better now, ducked. He knew they had to make this look believable now, as people were looking and cheering them on, but the idea of physically hurting the angel – or hurting him in any way – made him feel sick. The next time Aziraphale raised his fist to hit him, Crowley let him, allowing his own struggle to be minimal. He could feel his head pounding and blood running down his face.

I’M GOING TO DO SOMETHING DEMONIC. PREPARE TO RUN, he told Aziraphale, who nodded quickly. Within the matter of seconds a man standing close to them turned to the other and punched him unceremoniously. The others didn’t even need encouraging. A fight broke out in the middle of the dancefloor, with some quickly scurrying away and some relishing in the turn of events. In the midst of the chaos, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and dragged him towards the back exit. Waiting in the back alley was the Bentley and Crowley started making his way towards it, but Aziraphale tugged at his hand and shook his head slightly. Within the blink of an eye, they were safe and sound in the back room of the bookshop.

Aziraphale took Crowley by the arm and sat him down in his most comfortable chair. Crowley was shaking ever so slightly, more so from the sudden change of location than from the fight, or so he’d like to believe, anyway. Aziraphale kneeled down and assessed the damage. There was blood coming from Crowley’s nose and his left eyebrow and a bruise was forming here and there. In the midst of it all he lost his hat and his glasses were cracked in one corner.

Aziraphale got up quickly and grabbed his first aid kit from the cupboard. He took out disinfectant and poured some onto the clean handkerchief he kept in his pocket. He gently removed Crowley’s glasses before he set to work on his wounds. His eyes, as always in times of great distress, were completely golden. Aziraphale let his hand brush briefly against Crowley’s unbruised cheek and the demon leaned into it, closing his eyes. Then Aziraphale focused on the task at hand.

“Was that completely necessary, my dear?” he asked finally, softly and trying not to sound accusatory. This was mainly to try and sway Crowley’s attention away from the burn of the disinfectant on his cheek.

“I was about to ask you the same, actually,” Crowley replied. His eyes were still closed and lips pursed into a thin line. “What the heaven were you thinking?”

“I did what you asked me to do,” Aziraphale said defensively. “It might hurt a bit, now,” he said, his tone gentler, as he turned his attention to a particularly ugly cut. It took all of his power to restrain himself from just miracling Crowley alright and healthy. He knew just the sudden transportation to the bookshop left a footprint in the heavenly atmosphere. He’d be hearing about it soon enough.

“I asked you to dance, not to beat me up!” Came a sharp reply.

Aziraphale’s movements stopped. “You did what now?”

“Asssked. You. To. Dance.”

“That is what you think it means?” Aziraphale would have laughed if the exchange came up in a different context. Where has Crowley picked up that phrase anyway?

“Yes.” Crowley opened his eyes and looked at him, a bit anxious. “What do _you _think it means?”

“To fight, obviously.”

“Fight?!”

“Yes.” Aziraphale dabbed the wet cloth around Crowley’s nose gently, cleaning the dried-up blood. “I might’ve come to like spending time with the young chaps at the bar. And they use all kinds of modern expressions. Never, though, have I heard them use that one in regard to dancing. Where did you pick it up, dear?”

Crowley thought back to a perfectly nice young girl who was on a date with a perfectly nice young gentleman during an outdoor picnic a few weeks ago and felt his cheeks burn. He was sulking on a bench, trying to influence a goose to chase a kid, but geese have never listened to him. And that’s when the phrase, spoken softly and with laughter, caught his ear as the boy dragged the girl towards the band playing soft jazz music. It made him long for something he was quite sure he couldn’t have and he promptly repressed the memory right after. That is, until today.

“I don’t know. You hear something, you think you know what it means, I–” he mumbled.

Aziraphale shook his head and smiled gently. He packed the first aid kit up and put it on the side. “Right,” he said. “You’ll tell me one day. But for now, dear, I want you to know that I am sorry.”

“Aziraphale, angel,” Crowley whispered. “It’s okay. It’s what you thought I asked of you.”

Aziraphale raised Crowley’s hand to his lips and kissed his bruised knuckles. “I’m still sorry. I could’ve clarified what you meant before swinging my fists at you. I might need to take a break from trying to get these boys on the right path,” he chuckled weakly.

Crowley nodded and gave him a small smile. “Yes. It might seem they’re the ones influencing you.”  
  
“Good Lord, they are! Such interesting fellows,” Aziraphale agreed. “Come sit down with me?”

They moved slowly to the couch and Aziraphale sat down first with his arm outstretched for Crowley to fit snugly under. He curled up by his side, his head coming to rest on the angel’s shoulder and Aziraphale’s hand immediately finding its way to gently stroke Crowley’s hair. They were quiet for a while, just taking in each other’s presence.

“I hope you know I don’t ever want to see you hurt,” said Aziraphale after a while.

“I know, angel, I know.”

“Is there anything else I can do to make it up to you?”

Crowley closed his eyes and turned his head towards the warm place where Aziraphale’s neck met his shoulder. He hummed gently, contently, before he spoke. “Later, you could read to me for a while. And we could see about that wine you talked about. But for now, let us just stay here like this for a while, please.”

“Whatever you want, love,” came a fond reply and Crowley hazily thought he had never been so glad to be misunderstood before. For this one moment, the soft caress of Aziraphale’s fingers on the back of his neck, the steady pattern of his breathing, just them, uninterrupted, alone together, was the sweetest reward worth any kind of pain.

**Author's Note:**

> cheesy endings because i want them! thank you for reading! please leave kudos or a comment (i will love you forever) if you liked it and yeah! thanks again!
> 
> come yell with me on tumblr - wartimelovers


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